The Most Unlikely of Relationships
by ActuallyIt'sAloysius
Summary: The closest Jess Richards had come to violence was playing Grand Theft Auto on Xbox. She could never have imagined that a routine inspection could lead to witnessing a horrific murder, and the most unlikely of relationships with the man who committed it.
1. A Routine Inspection

It stank. The whole place freaking stank.

It was hardly surprising really, the used needles & various bottles of booze gave the indication that this place had long been used as an ideal place to score crank.

I picked my way gingerly through the garbage until I reached the rotten wood door of the old gravel loader, immediately noticing the severe structural damage to the exterior wall of the main warehouse.

Steve was not going to be impressed. Although, given the prime location of the building in an up and coming part of Lodi my bastard of a boss would probably be excited by the challenge renovating it presented.

Challenge was fucking right.

Even after nearly ten years of renovating and re-selling old buildings I still couldn't see how Steve meant to turn this shit heap into $250,000 apartments, maybe if the warehouse was in LA but _Lodi?_

The place had a certain air of charm but Hollywood it was not. It was a bloody ghost town that's what it was. I groaned inwardly at the thought of having to move near here for a year or more if Steve decided to go ahead with his plans for renovation. Of course, _he_ would go back to LA and leave _me_ in some redneck town. Eighteen months of tele-conferencing. I groaned again.

Having been unsuccessful in writing off the place at first glance I heaved open the rotten wooden doors to look around inside.

More freaking bottles and crank needles greeted me as I stepped into a shaft of light coming through a broken window just to the right of the front doors.

"How Steve can believe this place could ever be called 'homely' is beyond me" I muttered, crunching broken glass under my Docs as I made my way towards a less than stable looking metal ladder set against the far wall.

I thanked the powers that be for Steve's one good attribute – he allowed me to wear casual clothes such as jeans and boots when assessing potential 'fixer-uppers'. Mandy, the sweet but slightly naive twenty year old that was interring at the firm hadn't been on enough scouting jobs to start swapping office wear for the borderline combat gear that was necessary.

The metal ladder led to a small landing that, judging from the scattered pieces of old chairs and a rusty filing cabinet must have been an office of some sort.

I had just started trying to jimmy open the stubborn bitch of a filing cabinet to see if there were any records or papers left inside when my image of this area of Lodi as a veritable ghost town was rudely disrupted by the rumble of engines.

I peeked out of the half-broken window in time to see four men dressed in dark clothing drag a fifth in front of a dumpster just behind the warehouse.

"Shit!"

I cursed under my breath for parking a few blocks away. It hit me that today might not have been a good day to be without a motorised means of escape.

Two of the ninja men pulled out guns. Okay, today _definitely _was not a good idea to leave my car beyond running distance. Even if it was older than me and a piece of junk, these guys did not look like the types to let witnesses get off without a warning.

I had to stop myself from screaming as one of the men shot the guy on the ground through the jaw. My eyes widened as I noticed the man that was now screaming in agony was wearing what appeared to be a leather motorcycle vest.

'Oh my God! Fucking bikies?'

My heart was thudding audibly against my ribcage. Even though most of the men were yelling at each other I was utterly convinced that they could hear my heart hammering away.

'What if there are more of them?' I thought to myself.

A sick feeling rose up in my gut. Deciding that hiding under a table was the best option – running for help be damned – I ducked under the window ledge.

As I was crawling like the baby I was a single shot rang out. It froze me in my tracks and I couldn't resist peeking back over the sill.

Big mistake.

A bearded man in a beanie was carving something into the previously screaming in agony, now obviously dead, man's stomach.

I tried to minimise my retching as my stomach attempted to bring up this morning's coffee and apple breakfast combo.

Waiting out whatever the hell was going on not 50 yards away seemed like the best, and only, option. I huddled up against a wall, pulled out my zip lighter and began to flick it on and off. Even though I rarely smoked anymore I had still kept up playing with my lighter as a nervous habit.

It was nightfall before I got up the nerve to leave. I felt like a fucking coward but hey, I wasn't quite used to seeing someone killed and practically gutted like an animal in front of me.

The whole way home, I could not shake the image of that man calmly carving up that bikie's stomach. I mean they acted as if it was no big deal for Christ's sake! What kind of psychopath kills someone without a fucking good reason?

The water had run cold by the time I managed to drag myself out of the shower the next morning. I'd been tossing and turning all night playing out different scenarios in my head. In the most popular one, the person with the beanie burst into my bedroom and shot me directly through the temple. I had given up trying to sleep at around three – after a car backfired and nearly scared the shit out of me.

Steve yelled at me the next morning for being late. The excuse I made up about having three flat tires in the space of two hours may have been a bit weak even for a relatively easy going boss like Steve.

Once he finished his tirade and his face had returned back to its normal colour he told me, or rather barked at me, to go back to the warehouse and get the measurements he wanted.

As Mandy refused to swap sites with me, having landed the job of surveying an old cottage a few miles away, I found myself heading back out to the warehouse.

Two hours in the baking sun, and a change from jeans to denim shorts later, I was once again disturbed to hear the sound of an engine pulling up near the warehouse.

A momentary bolt of panic shot through me and I nearly dropped the tape measure I was holding. The sound of gravel crunching under what I imagined to be motorcycle boots prompted me to succeed in dropping the tape measure. My mind was screaming obscenities at my frozen muscles to move but for some reason my body decided to go with 'freeze' rather 'flight'.

The owner of the boots stepped around the corner and I was glad my body hadn't decided to go with 'fight' because the guy was freaking huge. Granted most people were taller than me, but this guy held himself with a sense of surety that made the difference between our heights greater than what it probably was.

By this stage, my examination of the owner of the boots had gotten as far as his leather jacket, or more specifically the cut covering it. I returned to my coward setting and squeezed my eyes shut in a show of 'I can't see you so you can't see me' behaviour usually seen in those under the age of five.

"What the hell are you doing here?"  
>His voice was not angry, upset or cautious but rather a mixture of the three.<p>

"Why do you have your eyes closed?"

The anger in his tone went up a notch.

I risked a peek.

"Um, I work for an architectural firm and we're interested in buying this place."

My voice came out in a series of small noises that sounded more like gibberish rather than proper words. The guy appraised me for a moment for saying simply:

"It's not for sale".

At this I began to feel my temper rise.

"Hey asshole! Why would I be taking measurements from the whole fucking building in the stinking heat if it wasn't for sale?"

At the slight look of shock on his face from my sudden outburst I felt my confidence boost further.

"Furthermore, just who the hell do you think you are sneaking up on someone? This isn't public property!"

He remained silent a moment longer before responding to my tirade.

"Look I was just, I was...Why do I have to give you a reason for being here? As you said, your company or whatever is looking into buying the place. You don't own it yet."

Something else seemed to occur to him because he continued speaking before I could get a word in.

"Speaking of trespassing, have you been here before? Recently?" His tone had a hint of a threat in it and his eyes glanced down to my lighter, which I had subconsciously started to flick against my thigh.

My eyes widened slightly as I tried to think of something to say. Nothing was coming whereas a minute earlier I had been suffering from verbal diarrhoea. The lack of response seemed to confirm bigfoot's suspicions and he took a step towards me.

I felt myself face heat up at his proximity and the pressure of thinking up a response. Eventually I stammered out,

"I, I, I m-may have um, have, have to go. I have to go".

'Flight' instinct kicking in I turned tail and fled, but not before it occurred to me that the person interrogating me had a beard, and had been wearing a beanie.

'Fuck!' I thought. I'd actually seen fit to _yell _at someone I'd seen kill a guy not 24 hours earlier!

This realisation spurred me on, and I could hear the sound of boots hitting gravel hard as the guy I now knew to be a complete psychopath ran after me. Skidding to halt at a gap between the main warehouse and a smaller one, I glanced to my right to see killer-dude rounding the opposite corner. Wheezing slightly and cursing myself for being less than fit I sprinted down the gap between the two walls and thanked god that I'd parked my car just out the front this time.

A black motorcycle was right next to the driver's side door, and as I approached my car I stopped at the bike and repeatedly kicked the stand trying to get if off the ground. When it wouldn't budge under the force of my pitiful kicks I swore loudly, wrenched open the door of my car and practically jumped into the driver's seat. I threw the car into drive and turned the wheel slightly to knock the black motorcycle over. It hit the gravel hard, raising a cloud of greyish dust.

Satisfied that I had given myself a reasonable head start I peeled out of there like I was in a gangster movie, and ran three red lights in my haste to make it back to the hotel.

'Fuck this shit' I thought to myself as I frantically shoved clothing into my overly large suitcase.

'I'm telling Steve that I'll rent a place rather than stay in this town'. I tried to recall the name of the town that the old cottage Mandy was surveying today was in. It been something sweet and inviting that sounded considerably safer than this hole of a hotel.

Charming. That was it.

I scribbled a note to Steve explaining where I'd gone and slipped it under his door. If the place Mandy was supposed to be looking at was nice it was unlikely that she would be in charge of renovating it anyway. I was sure Steve would let me stay in it while I was overseeing the restorations, and I would still be within a short drive of Lodi.

'Yes, I will call the estate agent who's dealing with the firm' I assured myself.

Charming was going to be a much safer place to live for the next 18 months than Lodi.


	2. The Bathtub Incident

**A/N: I wasn't going to post this up yet because I haven't managed to get more than chapter four finalised, but I didn't want to keep any of the lovely people who reviewed waiting (thanks for those reviews guys, as Mark Twain said "I can live for two months on a good compliment"). I hope some of your questions can be answered in this chapter.**

* * *

><p>It turns out that Charming isn't actually all that charming. At least, the place I was to call home for the next 18 months wasn't. I suppose I didn't really have much reason to complain, the small house was better than a hotel and bigger than an apartment. I may have been the only person who was going to be living there but I liked to spread my shit out.<p>

Once the realtor had finished showing me the many delights of the house, which included four (tiny) bedrooms, a bathroom, a lounge, dining room and kitchen, it was still only four in the afternoon.

I slipped on a pair of boots and grabbed my leather jacket before locking the front door and surveying the street. I vaguely remembered the realtor telling me that the centre of town was about 10 minutes walk east of the house.

The houses along what I guessed I could now call 'my' street were all pretty similar. Red brick one-storey structures that had seen better days. Another few minutes of walking and I was in a slightly better street, the lawns here were well manicured and most of the houses were two storey.

The sight of a shiny motorcycle in the front yard of one of the houses momentarily stopped me in my tracks before I shook my head and told myself I was being silly – what were the odds that the guy I had bolted from yesterday lived in Charming?

By the time I reached the supermarket in the centre of town I was convinced that the realtor was a lying bitch. My t-shirt was stuck to my skin and my jacket was making me almost unbearably hot but I really didn't want to take it off because I was pretty sure I was sporting some impressive sweat patches. Gross.

"Ten minutes my ass" I muttered as I headed towards the inviting cool air coming from the dairy section.

After grabbing eggs, milk, bread and a dozen other food staples I headed towards one of the cashiers.

"Hi! How are you today?" She greeted airily.

I think she must have thought I was a bit odd due to my lack of response. I didn't care because I was too busy staring at the two motorcycles parked out the front of the glass doors. How had I missed those?

"That'll be $37.85 thanks".

"Miss?"

"Miss?"

"MISS!"

"WHAT?" I snapped at the cashier and she gave me glare as I shoved some bills into her hand.

"Say, is there a liquor store nearby?"

I was feeling the need for something stronger than beer tonight and was slightly offended when the cashier slapped my change on the counter and just pointed rudely behind her.

Assuming the she meant the liquor store was a few blocks away I picked up my change and groceries and began walking.

After wandering aimlessly for fifteen minutes it occurred to me that I might be lost. Charming may be a small town but the less than charming cashier had not been exactly detailed when giving me 'directions' to the liquor store. I decided to ask the nearest place that was open for better directions; having passed a mechanic's about a minute earlier I doubled back and was just heading towards the driveway of 'Teller-Morrow Automotive' when two motorcycles rode past. Both of the riders glanced my way as they passed.

Perverts.

The all too familiar instinct to freeze took hold as the bike in front slowed and its owner turned to look at me. The rider on the one behind yelled out above the roar of the engines.

"Hey Ope! Why'd you slow up?"

By now the first rider, Ope or whatever, had turned his bike round. I saw him speak to the other guy out of my peripheral vision.

"Nothing to worry about Jax, I just remembered there's something I gotta take care of".

And just like that I turned on my heel and started to power walk in the opposite direction. All the while having a mini mental breakdown.

'Take care of? What the fuck does that mean? Isn't that like slang for killing someone? Or is it just the mafia who use that expression?'

I pulled my house keys out of the front pocket of my shorts and jammed three of the keys through my fingers as a weak form of weapon.

The guy on the bike was following me, I could tell that by the slow rumble of his engine which indicated he was riding along at less than a mile per hour. However, I refused to confirm this fact by turning to look at him.

I picked up my pace and was pleased when the sound of the engine cut out. He must have given up following, or more likely hadn't been following me in the first place. I was being paranoid, although dyeing my red hair a nice shade of mousy brown seemed like a good idea. Much less conspicuous.

I was lost in my thoughts when someone called out my name.

"Jessica! Jessica Richards!"

Instinct caused me turn around. It was that 'Ope' guy. He walked quickly toward me and didn't stop until he was well inside my personal space boundaries.

"How do you know my name?" I demanded, craning my neck to look up at him.

'Oh fuck! It's that guy from yesterday! Oh my god he is going to kill me. I'm going to die. This is the end. Goodbye life. Goodbye family, well great aunt Angie anyway. I will be dug up in three years time and be the subject of an 'unsolved murders' documentary.'

My thought process continued to get more and more irrational until I was jerked out of my overly dramatic state by my future murderer's response. Or perhaps his name was Opie, as the patch on his leather vest suggested, although I didn't think many murder victims were on a first name basis with the people who killed them.

"It's amazing what you can learn from running someone's plates, Jessica Richards of 164 Westbridge Street...would you like me to continue with your home address? Or maybe your work one?"

I opened my mouth but no sound came out.

"I think we need to have a talk, over here"

Opie steered me into a small alley between two buildings. I didn't think this was a good place for me to be going but I was too petrified to think of a means of escape. Besides the guy knew where I lived. What the fuck was I going to do – go on the run like some kind of criminal?

The irony of having to go on the run from a criminal for being a good citizen was not lost on me. Neither was the fact that Opie had stopped walking us into the alley and still hadn't let go of my upper arm. This prompted me to find my speaking voice.

"Jesus! You have to hold on so tight? I bruise easily!"

Opie let go of my arm and I relaxed. That is, until he backed me up against the wall, his arms on either side of my head, effectively trapping me. I tried to duck under his right arm but he just lowered his elbow slightly, making it level with my jaw. I turned back to him to find his face inches from mine.

'Shit' was the only thought that came to mind. The beard, the beanie, the smell of leather, cigarettes, and sandalwood – all I could see was him slicing up that guy's stomach.

"You know Jessica..."

He only got those three words out before I interrupted him.

"It's Jess"

The instant the words were out of my mouth I regretted saying them. Like I needed to antagonise the guy anymore.

Opie looked slightly taken aback for a moment before continuing.

"I'll call you what I want – got it?"

I nodded in reply and attempted to melt into the wall.

"A funny thing happened to me yesterday _Jessica. _I went to an abandoned gravel loader, only there was someone else already there. A woman who looked like she wouldn't have a clue what a gravel loader was and when I asked her what she was doing there she yelled at me. Then she took off in her car, but not before running over my bike."

'I barely knocked it' - I wisely kept this thought to myself rather than say it out loud.

As if to make sure I died of fright Opie closed the gap between us until there was only an inch of space, the scent of sandalwood and cigarette smoke intensifying as he did so.

I increased my efforts to melt into the brick behind me as his voice dropped a little lower.

"Do you know what happens to people who run over my bike?"

I had a feeling I was about to find out. Trapped and seeing nothing to lose I let fly my inner smart ass.

"Oh I don't know, maybe you shoot them and then carve your initials into their stomach or some shit like that".

That was the wrong fucking thing to say. Opie leaned back from me slightly as what I'd said registered. He seemed to struggle with something before suddenly punching the brick wall beside my left ear. That was it. I dropped my shopping bags and took off like a bullet from a fucking gun. I bolted around the corner of the alley and scrambled over a wire fence a few feet away in a very unladylike manner.

I didn't realise how scared I'd been until I realised I'd run for fifteen minutes solid and had reached my front door. Panting heavily, I bolted all the windows and doors and then locked myself in the bathroom.

I slept in the bathtub that night.

Seven hours of trying to get comfortable in a confined space and I was over being scared. I was fucking pissed off. Who did that dickhead think he was? Assuming I'd go to the cops?

Although, to be fair how was he to know that my only encounter with our great justice system had left me less than confident in the idea of criminals getting what they deserved?

I was just pouring myself my morning coffee when the doorbell rang. I figured it was the realtor dropping off the papers for the house, but when I opened the door it turned out to be another bikie. My morning dose of caffeine had not been absorbed yet and I was not in the mood to be intimidated. Even the knife hanging off of the guy's belt failed to scare me.

"Shit. What the hell do you want? Your complete dick of a friend scares the shit out of me and now you want a go too?" I snapped.

I remembered the guy's name was Jack or Jax or something like that. He didn't say anything but handed me a grocery bag. The gesture threw me off guard.

"What's this for?" I asked warily.

Jax attempted a flirty smile before answering.

"Just a replacement for the groceries you dropped yesterday. Think of it as a peace offering, wouldn't want Charming's latest resident to complain about SAMCRO's behaviour now would we darlin'?"

I took what he said as it was meant. Don't say anything. Shut up if you know what's good for you.

Unfortunately for Jax I was still pissed off and what he'd just said had made it worse.

"Yeah well you and SAMCRO, whatever that stands for, can shove your groceries where the sun don't shine for all I care. I am not a rat! How dare you assume that I'd go running to the police about what I saw? Does the phrase 'innocent bystander' mean anything to you?"

He looked stunned and I took the opportunity to shove the bag of groceries back at his chest. I heard the eggs crack as I continued yelling.

"Why would I go to the cops? Not that I don't have a good reason to considering that that Opie guy fucking gutted someone!"

'Gutted' may have been a strong word and I may have been a bit melodramatic. After all, Jax had come to give me groceries and I had started to borderline shriek at him.

"What the f-" was all he managed to get out before I slammed the door shut, locking it again.

I thought it a bit rude to leave his question unanswered so I opened the door until the chain on it was taut.

"I said shove it up your ass dickhead. I'm not going to tell anyone shit! So you and your psycho buddies leave me the hell alone!"

As an afterthought I added "And don't call me 'darlin'!"

Slamming the door in his face I turned to lean my back against it, breathing heavily. After a minute I heard the rumble of an engine coming to life. As it faded into the distance I regretted giving back the groceries, it was already ten and I was_ starving_. Looked like it was going to be leftover pizza for breakfast.

I did housework for the rest of the day. Steve hadn't called to say when I needed to start with the plans for the house so until then I was free to waste time as much as possible.

It was five before I looked up from scrubbing the kitchen floors. I was sweating from working all day and decided to jump in the shower so as not to offend anyone at the supermarket. Unless I wanted pizza for the third time that day I knew I'd have to go get groceries some time soon.

The hot shower helped to ease the ache in some of my muscles. Working all day coupled with all the running had really shown just how unfit I was. I promised start running in the mornings as I dried myself off. I also promised to go shopping the next day, I couldn't be bothered doing it that evening. Instead I ordered Chinese and had it delivered.


	3. Drywall & A Doctor

**A/N: Thanks once again to everyone who reviewed. ****I'm sorry this chapter is a little on the short side but some boring things like character development need to be dealt with before Opie makes an appearance again (in 2 chapters time!). Also, I am not American so forgive me for spelling things in the English way but I'm always open to constructive criticism on areas where I can use American terminology. **

* * *

><p>A week later saw me almost settled into Charming. Granted, I hadn't really ventured out of the house much, preferring to stay inside and start ripping out all the old fixtures in the house. In fact, apart from going to the supermarket once and buying enough food to last me through my self-imposed hibernation, as well as going to the liquor store and stocking up on my favourite Californian red, three bottles of gin, and eight bottles of tonic water I hadn't ventured past my front door at all.<p>

Even though I realised that I may have overreacted in the whole Jax/grocery situation I still made sure that fixing new locks on all the entry points to the house was top of my renovation 'to-do' list.

Today marked the one week anniversary of my isolation from the rest of Charming, and, after having a tele-conference with Steve (as predicted the bastard was already back in LA) I set to work ripping out the wall connecting the smallest bedrooms. Fortunately the house had already been tested negative for asbestos so all I needed in the way of protection was a bandana tied around my mouth, some goggles that made me look like an alien, and an axe.

By one that afternoon I was so hot that I had stripped off to just a tank and my denim shorts, although I left my boots on for protection as I tended to kick in the plasterboard just as much as I used the axe. As I struck the wall over and over I yelled along with my iPod while picturing how the room would look once I knocked out the wall and turned the two smallest rooms into a master bedroom, complete with walk-in wardrobe.

I kept the music loud partly because I needed to drown out the sound of my awful voice, and partly because I enjoyed pissing off the woman next door. She had got on my bad side by accusing me of being a 'crow-eater' or whatever the hell that was. I had guessed that it was some sort of term for the women who hung around with the bikies in town and this realisation had caused me to correct her assumption in a very rude manner which mainly involved lots of expletives and hand gestures.

This had done nothing to assuage her belief that I was a bikie whore. I had considered renting a motorcycle and leaving it in the driveway just to annoy the nosy woman but despite my anger at SAMCRO I was still scared shitless of a certain member of the organisation. Just the sound of a motorbike rumbling past was enough to make me jump, and after the third broken coffee cup it had started to make me angry as well.

Turning up the volume on my iPod dock so it began to hurt even my ears I started kicking a section of the plasterboard with more energy than before. On the third strike I hit a wooden beam and swore loudly. Withdrawing my foot and hopping around on my right leg I noticed that the place where my foot had hit the wood was bleeding badly and I regretted not keeping my jeans on.

As much as I wanted to stay in the house I knew I had to go to the hospital. The cut definitely needed stitches. I roughly tied my bandana around my leg as a sort of bandage and limped out to my car, flipping off the woman next door who was pruning her rose bushes as I did so.

Thirty-five minutes and a lot of swearing at my GPS later I pulled into the hospital's car park and hobbled into the emergency ward, the bandana tied around my leg now leaving a trail of blood behind me. The woman at the desk glanced at me over the top of her glasses before pointing to a chair and saying "Take a seat and fill this form out, we're quite busy today".

There was no one in the waiting room at all. I took the form before giving a sarcastic reply.

"I can see how busy you are, it's positively crowded in here – how will I find somewhere to sit?"

The receptionist looked annoyed at my retort.

"Look just take a seat and someone will be with you shortly".

I was not to be discouraged.

"Look! Unless you need your prescription changed you should be able to see that I am bleeding all over the floor, if I lose my leg I will sue this hospital and you personally!"

I felt a bit bad about yelling at her but my pain tolerance was on par with a two-year olds. So was my patience.

The woman opened her mouth to argue but spotted a slim woman with dark hair and called out to her instead.

"Dr Knowles! Will you please notify this _lady _that she'll just have to wait to get her leg attended to?"

The dark-haired woman walked over and glanced at my leg, her eyes widening as she did so.

"How long have you been bleeding like that?"

Relieved that someone was taking the situation seriously at last I decided to embellish my story a bit.

"Absolutely ages, and your receptionist refuses to call anyone, I'm going to bleed out soon!"

"Well I don't think you've lost quite that much blood but that cut needs to be stitched, and soon."

Dr. Knowles continued to suppress a smile at my dramatic comment as she turned to the woman at the desk, who was scowling at me.

"Aren't Dr. Andrews or Dr. Thurman available?"

After being assured by the scowling woman that everyone else was really very busy Dr. Knowles appeared to resign herself to the fact that she would have to forgo her lunch hour and stitch up my leg.

I smiled at her gratefully before shooting the receptionist a dirty yet triumphant look and followed the doctor into a room just down the hallway. As I hoisted myself onto the examination table the doctor introduced herself.

"I'm Tara by the way, don't worry about calling me 'doctor'. It always feels a bit strange to have someone who looks my age address me by my last name." She smiled at me before grabbing some supplies out of a cupboard on the far wall.

"Why don't you tell me how you managed to slice a five inch cut down your shin while I start stitching, it'll probably help to take your mind off of the needle."

"I'm renovating a house in Charming at the moment and I guess I got a bit carried away removing some plasterboard – note to self, don't kick a wall in while wearing shorts." I let out a hiss as Tara stuck a needle into my shin to numb the area before she began stitching.

"Sorry" She muttered, immediately sticking in another. "Have you had a tetanus shot in the last ten years?"

"Yeah I've cut myself a few times renovating before. Comes with the job, the company I work for finds really run down properties and renovates them before flipping them for a profit."

Tara started stitching before responding.

"Do you renovate many properties or just a few?"

"Well there's not as much money in it as you would think, I tend to get involved in too many 'personal' projects" I kept on talking as Tara stitched; my work was something I got passionate about. I could go on and on about the benefits of different types of wood flooring given a chance. It even drove Steve nuts.

"We're actually looking into buying the gravel loader in Lodi and turning it into luxury apartments, the warehouse style is fetching really high prices on the market right now. The house in Charming is just a small project compared to some of the places I've renovated in LA so I only need to call in help for the plumbing and electricity, everything else I do myself but it'll still take quite a few months to finish. I also do some private contracting occasionally, usually in the town I'm staying in to supplement my bonus in case the property doesn't sell well."

Tara had only looked up a few times while I was speaking and I barely noticed she had finished stitching until she stood up and took off her gloves.

"All done, just keep the area dry and come back in about two weeks to get the stitches removed. The cut was deep so I don't think they'll be ready to come out before then. I should warn you though; it's going to leave a large scar."

I nodded and carefully hopped down off of the examination table.

"Thanks for doing that, I probably could have waited but I want to get back to the house as soon as possible to finish a few things before dark. Let me know if I can help you with anything, I mean renovating advice or anything like that".

Tara paused for a moment, thinking.

"Actually my father passed away last year and I've been trying to sell his house by private sale. No one seems interested so far but perhaps I could hire you to fix the place up? It just needs some modern touches and I can't bring myself to do it."

I smiled warmly at her.

"I'd been happy to help, I'll give you my card, you can call me whenever, if there's not too much effort involved I'll do it pro-bono".

I pulled a crinkled business card out of the back pocket of my shorts that must have gone through the wash and handed it to Tara with instructions to call my cell. On my way back through the waiting area I gave the receptionist a satisfied smirk before going out into the car park and attempting to remember where the hell I parked my car.

I didn't do much work for the next few days, which unfortunately resulted in Steve leaving multiple text messages and voicemails on my phone. After about the fifth day of not responding his inquiries turned into threatening to fire me, but as he did this frequently when stressed I wasn't too worried.

Especially since I had better things on my mind than answering a million of Steve's questions.

Like Opie.

Okay so maybe not better things but certainly more interesting. With nothing to do but wait until my stitches healed up a bit I found my mind wandering down a dangerous path, my thoughts turning to all sorts of ridiculous explanations for Opie's odd behaviour.

I knew they weren't going to kill me, because let's face it, I don't think bikies are the sorts of people to come bearing gifts of groceries before returning a week later and shoving an AK-47 in your face. At least I hoped not. After seeing a man carve up a guy's stomach, casual as you please, my ability to gauge people's behaviour was slightly off.

The mental fight going on in my brain was starting to give me a headache, I couldn't figure out if I had a reason to be frightened. The rational side of me reasoned that SAMCRO was a bunch of bikies, who may or may not be convicted criminals. At the very least they had demonstrated an ability to kill without remorse. On the other Opie hadn't really threatened to do anything to me in the alley and his blonde buddy had offered me groceries. Albeit groceries that came with a warning to keep my mouth shut; but for all intents and purposes it was probably nothing more than SAMCRO's weird idea of a gesture of good will.

I shook my head to clear it of the argument that had been rattling around in there for the last week before beginning my nightly routine of triple checking that all the new locks I had installed were closed and that the alarm was on. Okay, maybe I was still a little scared of SAMCRO.


	4. The Two Opies

**A/N: Since my last update a close family member was involved in a car accident. It's not really an excuse for not updating but more an explanation for why I lost momentum in my updates. I'm finally at a stage where I feel passionately again about this story so I am definitely continuing on with it, if anyone is still reading I feel grateful that you are and I hope I can get back on track with it soon. **

* * *

><p>Day six after the drywall incident dawned bright and early for me as I hadn't got much sleep the night before. Unlike my first night spent in the bathtub, my fitful sleep plagued by vivid dreams of disembowelment, the previous night's sleep had been plagued by dreams of a different but no less disturbing kind.<p>

_I was on the back of my Dad's old Ducati. My Dad had never been a Harley man, preferring instead the sleek look of a city bike, although his Ducati had never really looked all that sleek as he had insisted on painting it Jaffa orange. _

_In my dream we whizzed through city streets, I clutched my Dad's waist tightly and leaned in as we sharply turned round corner after corner, coming to a rest at a quiet intersection downtown. The bike purred underneath me, as impatient as I was to get going. _

_I began to straighten the twisted strap on my helmet but stopped as an Aston Martin pulled up in the opposing lane. Man it was a nice car. I was too concentrated on admiring the car to notice that the light had turned green, my grip on my Dad instinctively tightening as we took off. _

_Halfway through the intersection the Aston Martin swerved to the left slightly before coming back over and pulling sharply to the right. It hit the front wheel of the bike and sent me flying. I landed eight or nine feet away, winded and gasping for air. I could feel the heat of the road on my back and an intense stinging sensation that told me I was bleeding badly. _

_Painfully, I eased my way onto all fours to look over at the Ducati. For a minute I couldn't figure out why I couldn't see it anywhere, and then I spied the twisted metal frame poking out from behind the Aston Martin. _

_My heart stopped and dropped like a stone into my stomach before coming up to rest somewhere in my throat. Coughing, I managed to crawl my way toward the bike but stopped after no more than two feet. I could already see it. My Dad lay under the back wheel of the car, his form in his leathers and helmet twisted and alien. _

_In the movies this was always the most dramatic moment, the part where the audience chokes back tears as the hero looks to the sky and screams, clutching their loved one's face. It was always so vividly tragic on screen. _

_In reality I couldn't even bring myself to go near my Dad, I didn't want to see anymore, the sight of his mangled body already burnt into my memory. I just lay on my stomach, listening to the sound of faint sirens, and concentrating on the shards of glass and reflective plastic that littered the road._

After the fourth night straight of dreaming the same dream I couldn't take it anymore. I tried waiting until a decent hour to make the phone call but after waking up at 5am I couldn't make it past 6:30am before dialling.

My chest grew tight as the dial tone went on for a good thirty seconds before someone answered.

"Hello?"

As soon as the sleepy voiced drifted down the phone I relaxed.

"Hey Auntie" I whispered. "Sorry to wake you".

"What's wrong sweetie?" My Aunt Angie's voice, although croaky from years of chain smoking, had a calming effect on me.

"Nothing, I just wanted to chat and see how you were; but I must have forgotten about the time difference".

I reached into my bedside table to pick up my lighter, running my finger over the inscription on the front. I began flicking it on my thigh. The rustle of shifting material over the phone told me that my Aunt was finally waking up and what she said next confirmed it.

"Jess! Are you smoking again? I can hear that damn lighter going!"

I had always thought it was slightly hypocritical of her to disapprove of my smoking when she had her own pack a day habit, but apparently the powerful privilege of the elderly to criticise didn't have any limitations.

"No Auntie, I'm just nervous...I had that dream again".

There was a pause on the other end of the line.

"I haven't had it in years, but you remember how it used to keep me up every night, I barely made it through my senior year".

I was getting upset just talking about it. It had taken me years to get over my dad's death and though the memory of it still surfaced occasionally the pain this brought had dulled considerably over the years. For the past decade I had been virtually free from the constant replays of the accident that had almost driven me mad in high school. My Aunt was very well aware of this, having been the one who had taken me in for my last few years of school.

I hadn't needed a guardian then, just someone to anchor me to reality. She had forced me to go to counselling even though I had refused to talk about the accident to anyone, even the police. It had seemed private, a horrible moment that didn't need to be shared within anyone else. I didn't want anyone's pity but my own and had sat in my room for months before my Aunt had forced me into seeing a grief counsellor.

Now the dreams were back.

"What does it mean Auntie? Why are they coming back now? I can't deal with not sleeping, I have a job now".

My Aunt sighed; I could just picture her rubbing her forehead as she thought how best to respond.

"Jess, you're a grown woman but sometimes these things reoccur, you can't lock yourself away from your problems. Has anything happened with work that might have caused this?"

I tried to ignore the fact that my Aunt automatically assumed that nothing in my personal life could be causing be problems seeing as how she thought (quite rightly) that I didn't have one.

"No, work's fine" I reassured her, the voice in my head wanted to add 'Oh except for witnessing a murder but you know how it is'. I told that voice to shut it.

Part of me felt guilty for lying to my Aunt but I reasoned that whether being selective with the truth actually constituted lying was really a grey area. Somehow seeing what Opie had done to that guy had triggered in me the same response I had to my Dad's death. The memory was private, no one else needed to know.

However, just like my Dad's death the memory of what Opie had done seemed to be causing me to have some less than pleasant dreams. I spitefully hoped he was sleeping less than I was.

My Aunt's voice drew me back from my process of willing Opie to get insomnia, I hadn't even realised that I'd stopped listening.

"Jess? Are you still there? I said why don't you try one of the exercises the grief counsellor had you do when you first started sessions with her. If it worked back then it might work now although I still think there's something you're not telling me."

"Auntie, I've told you everything. I'll try what you suggested though. Maybe it will work, thanks for chatting and I'm sorry for waking you up".

I made to hang up the phone but my Aunt wasn't finished.

"I'm telling you Jess if there is something bothering you then you need to sort it out, you know what you're like. You won't be able to sleep until you've dealt with your feelings. Goodbye".

My Aunt's rather abrupt end to the conversation annoyed me. The fact that she was right about my need to deal with the Opie situation annoyed me even more.

I reluctantly decided to follow her advice and try one of the exercises that my grief counsellor had devised to help me get over my Dad's death.

Charming cemetery was, like everything else in this godforsaken town, charming. Well, as charming as a cemetery could be. Trees stood apart on freshly manicured lawns that were peppered with evenly spaced white and grey headstones. The total silence that descended on the cemetery didn't seem eerie to me. It was peaceful, comforting even. For the first time since witnessing that murder I allowed myself time to just think. My recent dreams about my Dad's death were the first thing to come to mind, along with my Aunt's advice.

After the accident I had spent a few days in hospital but my injuries were not so severe that they kept me from Dad's funeral. At least, my physical injuries didn't.

The same could not be said of my mental state. I don't know why but I couldn't bring myself to go to the funeral. It just seemed so...final. I felt weak for not coping. For running away. For hiding. I took off to another country to live with my Aunt, refusing to even visit Dad's grave.

Eventually the guilt of ignoring his death started to weigh too heavily on my mind. I used it as an excuse to get involved in all sorts of shit that my Aunt didn't need to deal with. An angst filled teenager getting rebellious? How cliché was that?

Nearly getting busted for possession finally made my 78 year old Aunt push me into seeing a counsellor.

Though cynical of seeing a 'shrink' what the counsellor suggested had been beneficial. I took to visiting the cemetery near my Aunt's house in North London and finding any tombstones that had someone roughly my Dad's age lying beneath it. It was comforting to let it all out amongst people who didn't, or rather couldn't, judge me. Slightly morbid sure, but it worked.

I closed my eyes momentarily and took a deep breath before beginning my search of the tombstones.

'Anna Darrington, beloved daughter, 1973 – 2001'

'Paul Hutchins, cherished brother, father and son, 1918-1982'

'Jeffery Momast, brother, son, missed, 1992-1994'

None of these were right. I didn't know what my Dad's tombstone looked like as I had never been able to face visiting his grave even after moving back to America. I hadn't even been able to go back to Chicago. Walking past rows and rows of cracked, long forgotten graves I came to a newer headstone.

'Gregory Knowles, beloved father and husband, 1949-2008'.

Was this Tara's Dad?

Staring at the white marble made me consider for a moment how skilled an actress Tara must be. She had seemed so pleasant when she stitched me up, giving away no hint of any recent loss. Of course, she could always simply have hated her father´s guts...but I chose to ignore that possibility.

I turned sharply away from Tara´s father´s headstone and continued moving along the row. I felt like I was peeking behind a private curtain by looking at it; although perhaps a better explanation was that I felt slightly ashamed of my own inability to treat people pleasantly when I didn´t feel like it. Maybe I needed to take a leaf out of Tara´s book.

My personal ´zen´ reflective time was cut short when I spied a shiny new headstone a few rows ahead. It wasn´t the headstone that drew my attention but the person who stood before it.

Opie.

Opie the murderer in a graveyard.

Great.

Cursing myself for being completely incapable of simply walking out of the cemetery I ducked behind a nearby tree, standing on my toes to get a look at what Opie was doing. I had to admit his behaviour intrigued me.

When he had cornered me in that alley he had seemed so self assured, tall and imposing; but now his shoulders were hunched and slightly shaking.

´Oh shit is he crying?´

I flushed with embarrassment as this realisation dawned on me, and turning my back on the uncomfortable sight I sank down with my back against the tree.

For fifteen minutes I argued with myself, trying to convince the all too curious part of me to get the hell up off the grass and LEAVE! But I stayed put, waiting until I heard Opie´s footsteps fade away before sprinting over to the grave he had been standing over.

'Donna Winston, beloved wife and mother, 1979 – 2008´

Who was this woman?

The visit to the cemetery, far from helping to clear my mind of Opie had only served to increase the time I spent thinking about him. Putting aside the bills I was currently sorting through (including a few ´final notice´ ones; I was awful at remembering to pay things on time) I tried to pin point why Opie was bothering me so much. Instead of just being pissed off at him (although that emotion was still strongly present), I was now also trying to reconcile the two versions of his personality that I had witnessed. Which one was the real Opie? And why the fuck did I care?

My leg had healed enough by now for me to continue renovations on the house. I decided to drive to the lumber yard I had seen just on the outskirts of town and pick up the materials I needed for the walk-in wardrobes.

The rumble of my car´s engine drew a few stares as I pulled into the parking lot and with some difficulty I resisted the urge to flip off the guys who laughed when they saw me hop awkwardly out of the driver´s side.

Short people probably shouldn´t purchase massive red trucks that are hard to get out of elegantly.

It took about an hour to pick out the exact type of wood I wanted, or rather bully the guy who was reluctantly serving me into ordering the type of wood I wanted, and it took another hour on top of that for him to actually find the wood that they actually had in stock. In short, my zen-like phase of yesterday had well and truly been replaced by my normal less than sunny demeanour by the time I was struggling out of the lumber yard hauling a primitive as fuck cart with about 300 pounds of wood on it.

The 50 yards to my car felt like a mile and I was sweating profusely by the time I got there. Taking a moment to rest it was a while before I noticed the two guys standing near my car.

I felt confused.

Then I noticed the great big fucking tow truck next to my car; putting two and two together it dawned on me that one of those ´final notice´ bills must have been for my car payments.

I felt pissed.

Finally, I noticed the two guys who were in the process of repossessing my only means of transportation in this god-forsaken town. In particular the one wearing the beanie.

My ambivalent feelings about Opie suddenly became crystal clear and I saw red.

"What the FUCK do you guys think you are doing? That´s my CAR!"


End file.
